


The Cost of Ambition

by i_claudia



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-28
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 08:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonel Roy Mustang makes up his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cost of Ambition

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the FMA anime-verse only. It was originally supposed to be “Five times Colonel Roy Mustang made up his mind”, but then I left it half-done for a year and couldn’t get back into the flow of the story. Note to self for future reference: never put a story down unless you’re absolutely sure it’s done.
> 
> Originally posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/18658.html). (28 January 2009)

It is common knowledge in the army that Major Roy Mustang is confident, that Major Roy Mustang is a man of action. It has been this way for years, for nearly as long as he has been in service.

Roy Mustang is well aware of this, and appreciates the respect it earns him. He knows that he is the rising star of the hour; he quietly basks in the approval of his superiors, smugly acknowledges the admiration of his peers. He is used to this. It is familiar, even comforting, to know his place in the world, to know exactly what his next step should be in order to rise one rung higher on the ladder.

This man running headlong through the deserted burning streets in a blind panic is not the same self-possessed, assured man most people know as Major Roy Mustang. Roy Mustang does not run. Roy Mustang is always in charge of his emotions, always ready to give a calm report about any situation. This man would not be able to remember his own name if asked, would not recognize himself, could not stop himself from running if he tried.

He runs until he can no longer lift his feet from the ground to put one in front of the other, runs until his lungs burn and the very air he breathes feels like fire. He knows that people will be wondering where he is. At the moment, he does not especially care. They can shoot him for desertion as far as he is concerned. 

Death, he thinks as he slumps to the ground, gasping, would be preferable to this. He lifts his shaking hands to his face, pressing his fingers against his eyelids as if that will stop the carnage playing and replaying in his head.

How did it come to this? he wonders. This is not supposed to be what service to his country is like, what war is like. He shouldn’t feel like he has been punched in the stomach because he followed orders. Those who posed a threat to the army’s success must be eliminated: a simple, clear rule he had found easy to live by at first. The doctors were dangerous, he tells himself, desperate, clutching at his hair and curling in on himself. They were an obstacle in the way of progress, of ending the bloody war. He tries to ignore the whispering voice in his head that asks cruel questions, but he cannot stop the visions flooding his mind.

He does not know how long he lies in the desert, staring up at the sky, smelling the smoke of the city and hearing the echoes of old screams. He barely notices when Major Armstrong finds him and carries him back to camp over one shoulder.

Months afterward, he still cannot – will not – sleep. In sleep, the screams and the smoke return, the blank stares of the dead and the choking dust become real once more. Awake, he feels empty and calm, numb to the world, but at night the pain and the visions return. He has tried to carefully conceal his nightmares, but he knows that a few close friends suspect something. Maes, in particular, knows something is wrong. Maes Hughes, he thinks disgustedly, is altogether far too perceptive.

He has thrown himself into research, into what he sees as his way out of the madness, out of the living nightmare. The charnel house his mind has become is slowly, slowly, beginning to sink beneath the stern orderliness of words and formulas. He has a purpose now. He will redeem himself, and earn peaceful sleep at last – one way or another.

It is almost complete when he realizes he cannot go through with it. It has rained for weeks, but one day he opens the curtains to find bright, warm sunlight flooding in. For the first time in what feels like years, the air smells clean, pure; it carries birdsong, not cries, to his ears. He takes a deep breath, and feels the joyful vibrancy of the day begin to heal the deep terror within his heart. The dark emptiness still leans heavily on him, but it no longer rules his mind.

A new idea begins to form, but he does not give voice to it, not yet. He rolls it around in his head, pacing back and forth in his small room, lost in thought as he wears a track in the floor.

It is here that Hughes finds him, bearing pie and sharp words. He lets Maes vent his anger, unable yet to admit how close he was to the end. He supposes he deserves the punch Maes lands, for shutting out his ally, his closest friend, for losing himself in the darkness.

Looking at Maes as the other man enjoys the pie he brought for Roy, Roy Mustang finally decides. The only way to stop the guilt, to make sure he never has to follow another command like that again, is to rise above. He knows what he must do, and he turns to Maes in hope.

*

Years pass, and he has come to Resembool with a letter, following the trail of Hoenheim of Light. He goes cloaked, keeping his head down and the silver glint of his watch hidden. He knows that State Alchemists are not exactly welcomed with open arms by most, and he wants to tread carefully with Hoenheim.

The night he arrives, he sees a glow just over the horizon. At first he thinks it is a house on fire, and he hurries, though from the brightness he knows there is nothing he can do at this point. When he draws closer, however, he sees that the light is nothing like a fire. He stops dead, examining it in wonder. It is the strongest transmutation he has ever felt. Hoenheim must be here; no other alchemist has that kind of power.

The next day he learns that it is not Hoenheim himself, but his sons. He allows himself a small, secret smile. Hoenheim is a loose cannon, an enigma. Hoenheim’s sons, on the other hand, are young and – he hopes – impressionable. It will be easier to recruit them, easier to earn and keep their loyalty. He has seen how powerful they are, knows he must keep them out of anyone else’s clutches. He does not want two boys who have survived an attempted human transmutation against him.

He does not dwell on the thought that perhaps he still feels guilt for the things he did in Ishbal, that his motives are not purely selfish. He refuses to entertain the notion that perhaps he is trying to save these boys from themselves.


End file.
